The Mistress stared after him, dumfounded; his howls and the
jarring slam of the house door echoing direfully in her ears. It
was the Master who ended the instant's hush of amaze.
"Whenever I've heard a grown man say he wished he was a boy
again," he mused, "I always set him down for a liar. But, for
once in my life, I honestly wish I was a boy, once more. A boy
one day younger and one inch shorter and one pound lighter than
Cyril. I'd follow him out of doors, yonder, and give him the
thrashing of his sweet young life. I'd--"
"Oh, do call him back!" begged the Mistress. "He'll catch his
death of cold, and--"
"Why will he?" challenged the Master, without stirring. "For all
his noble rage, I noticed he took thought to grab up his cap and
his overcoat from the hall, as he wafted himself away. And he
still had his arctics on, from this afternoon. He won't--"
"But suppose he should really go over to one of the neighbors,"
urged the Mistress, "and tell such an awful story as he
threatened to? Or suppose--"
"Not a chance!" the Master reassured her.
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